The Devil's Own eBook

I held back, and permitted them to work, merely leading
my own horse slightly to one side, and keeping in
his shadow. I doubt if Kirby even glanced toward
me, although if he did he saw only an ill-defined
figure, with no glimpse of my face. But the chances
were that I was nothing to him at that moment—­a
mere floating bum whom Rale had picked up to do this
job; and just then his whole attention was concentrated
upon the half-conscious girl, and his desire to get
her safely out of that neighborhood. My presence
meant nothing of special interest. Gaskins brutally
jerked the shrinking mulatto forward, and forced her
to mount one of the horses. She made some faint
protest, the nature of which I failed to catch clearly,
but the fellow only laughed in reply, and ordered
her to keep quiet. Eloise uttered no word, emitted
no sound, made no struggle, as the two other men lifted
her bodily into the saddle, where Kirby held her,
swaying helplessly against him, while Rale strapped
her securely into place.

The entire proceedings were so brutally cruel that
it required all my strength of will to restrain myself
from action. My fingers closed upon the pistol
in my pocket, and every impulse urged me to hurl myself
on the fellows, trusting everything to swift, bitter
fight. I fairly trembled in eagerness to grapple
with Kirby, hand to hand, and crush him helpless to
the earth. I heard his voice, hateful and snarling,
as he cursed Rale for his slowness, and the hot blood
boiled in my veins, when he jerked the girl upright
in the saddle.

“Thar,” said the saloon keeper, at last,
testing his strap. “I reckon she can’t
fall off nohow, even if she don’t sit up worth
a damn. Go ahead now, Moffett.”

Both the men stepped aside, and I led my horse forward.
The movement brought me more into the open, and face
to face with Kirby. By some trick of fate, at
that very instant a star-gleam, piercing through the
screen of leaves overhead, struck full into my eyes.
With an oath he thrust my hat back and stared straight
at me.

CHAPTER XXV

THE FUGITIVES

I could not see the mingled hate and horror glaring
in the man’s eyes, but there could be no doubt
of his recognition. The acknowledgment found
expression in a startled exclamation.

“By God!—­you, here!”

That was all the time I gave him. With every
pound of strength, with every ounce of dislike, I
drove a clenched fist into that surprised face, and
the fellow went down as though smitten by an axe.
Even as he reeled, Rale leaped on me, cursing, failing
to understand the cause, yet instinctively realizing
the presence of an enemy. He caught me from
behind, the very weight of his heavy body throwing
me from balance, although I caught one of his arms,
as he attempted to strike, and locked with him in
desperate struggle. He was a much heavier and
stronger man than I, accustomed to barroom fighting,